


We're Here

by CaptainMVF



Series: Far From Home (Miitopia Oneshots) [2]
Category: Miitopia (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, and being sweet, just two characters and their backstories (somewhat), sorry there's little miitopia lore here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainMVF/pseuds/CaptainMVF
Summary: You have to stop sometimes and take a break. The world is tough and scary, march on.





	We're Here

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat old from around a year ago.
> 
> Just Thief St. M and Cleric Dr. Issac out and about.

Traveling with the small cleric was not something St. M would have seen if she had been asked months earlier where she would be today.

Dr. Issac, as he wished to be addressed as, was at least a foot smaller than her and had tasteless tattoos that resembled purple tear marks going down the front of his face. His black hair was neatly hidden under his tall hat and his strides were confident and kept in pace with hers.

“Where to now?” he popped the question to her and looked up at the thief’s face.

St. M held back a grunt and gestured forward, “To the next town.”

He hummed and kept close to her, “To collect the gold from the mission or to rest?”

“Collect and go to the town.”

Her tone of voice demanded silence until they got to their destination but Issac wasn’t one to bend to someone’s wishes so easily.

“So what kind of mission would you want to go on next, when we get to the next town?”

The thief snorted and increased her pace, “Another monster slaying.”

“Ah,” they had just finished defeating a pack of five cerberuses where St. M did most of the ripping, and before they had gone on four separate monster missions where St. M had ripped apart all of those monsters in her path as well.

It was starting to become disgusting to be around with her, and Dr. Issac was having none of that.

“Can we go on a retrieval mission instead?” he asked and made sure to tread a step behind.

She gave him a sharp look, “No.”

Dr. Issac held a gulp, “W-why?”

“Because I don’t want to. Now keep moving.”

St. M nearly broke into a jog and he had to run close to her.

He did come to a halt after half a minute and stomped his foot in anger, “Stop this!”

The tall thief halted and turned to face him with a displeased look on her face, her teeth showing as she was about to growl at him.

“I’m tired of chasing monsters just so you can have a row with them, tell me what’s wrong!”

A smart person wouldn’t have challenged the infamous Fanged Shadow and would have instead run for the hills as best as they could before she would track them down and rip them to shreds. Dr. Issac was a psychologist and therapist, however, and St. M was one of his patients, which gave him an edge into facing the most feared human alive head-on.

St. M was not used to people butting heads with her, except for her friends, but then she and her therapist would always exchange the worst of blows through tongue.

“What do you want?”

He decided to treat her not like a patient and as a friend instead, “I want to know what’s wrong.”

The cleric makes a note when she inhales a deep breath as if she was about to scoff at him. Instead she looks him over and sighs, “You know what’s wrong. Everything.”

Issac actually scoffs, “I don’t mean with you! Just talk to me like a friend, I can see you’re not feeling your usual self.”

He was sure that St. M didn’t see him as a friend but it was the only word he could find to try and relate to her.

There was a log nearby the path, he shuffled towards it to sit, “Please… just talk to me.”

St. M saw him pat the space next to him as an invitation to be near him. She knew that the small man had no ill intentions towards her and she sighed before complying.

He perked up and seemed to blush a bit as she took a seat next to him, the log crunching a bit under her heavier weight. There was a flickering moment where Dr. Issac was reminded that underneath all those layers of black clothing was raw muscle (and scar tissue).

She gave him a soft look before turning away and holding a hand towards him, “Here.”

“Ah, Hand?” he was fluent in the newer language since he has had patients who were deaf, blind, and rarely mute.

The cleric in his pink sacred vestments stretched his smaller hand towards hers and the two gloved hands began to converse.

She began with rusty movements (the cleric thought that she didn’t use the language often) where her fingers curled into claws and made a downward motion as Issac met her pace by making the palm of his hand flat. This meant ‘pain.’ Then she twisted her wrist and made the tips of her fingers press down upon her palm. This was ‘need.’

“Why do you need pain?”

The thief didn’t look at him, “To remind me that I am alive.”

“Oh,” this made at least five or seven red flags pop up in his thoughts. “Why?”

“I blackout sometimes and lose myself when I use a knife,” she admits. “You already know this but I haven’t admitted yet that I actually like carving things.”

“Yes, that’s why you were known as Swift Carve before,” he knew this conversation would turn south but now he was starting to remember her file and the years of torture she had gone through. St. M had been known as just a number before starting junior training as Harbinger, before graduating as Swift Carve, and then given the letter M to her new title once she had risen through the ranks of her cult.

St. M’s hand was splayed out and the tips of her fingers brushed against Dr. Issac’s very carefully before she curled them into a fist and nudged his palm very hard. He pushed back and closed his hand around her fist.

There were many translations for the first touch- there was ‘love’ or ‘tender’ or ‘afraid to touch’ but the one that many used today was ‘afraid to feel nice feelings.’

“You’re afraid to feel positive emotions?”

She angled her head an inch downwards to signify a nod.

Her hands then formed a series of three formations to mean ‘love’ ‘not’ ‘love.’

“The love you got was not love at all?”

St. M didn’t respond as she was more focused on a tiny ladybug that was crawling on a blade of grass.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, “Okay, I guess I’ll just talk through hands.”

The cleric curled his hand sideways to ask her to go on.

She made a swirling motion with her hand and traced a heart into his palm for ‘mother’ and did so twice more before curling her hand into a fist and pushing into his hand for ‘no’ three times.

He knew he was getting into deep water since he had been warned weeks ago by St. B to never ask about Carta or her scars. Carta was obviously not her mother but the supreme commander of her cult, he had been horrified to see the cult fall to their knees and actually THANK him and his resistance group for killing her. There had been terrible rumors as to what she had done to them but no one had dared to say anything but a few cautions before running in the opposite direction.

The cleric looked over one of the nastier scars that ran over her nose and itched towards her left eye. He remembered how he first met her. Issac had heard tales of the most fearsome person on the planet and how they worked for Carta. A dark entity that was more than capable of slashing you to bits and was more than eager to make sure you would stay dead before you were even put into the ground. Then he had actually met her and found that the tales were almost as tall as her and that St. M was actually just a heavily damaged mortal.

Issac carefully and shyly curled his hand into a fist and butted it up against her fist as a way of comfort.

She blinked in surprise at the tender gesture.

He nudged her a bit more, making his fist nuzzle against her’s.

St. M actually FLINCHED at this and stared at him like a dog awaiting their owner to throw the tennis ball already.

Dr. Issac gave her a soft smile, “You don’t have to tell me.”

She blinks once more but her look does not change. It was hard to judge her mood with all the scars on her face. He couldn’t tell if her pale skin ever flushed or could pale anymore.

He then rubbed his thumb over her hand and he could see her muscles relax.

‘I trust you.’

Her fist fell under his and nudged at his wrist.

‘Safe.’

St. M then lifted her arm around his and bumped it softly against his long sleeve.

‘With you.’

He felt his heart leap into his throat as warmth spread throughout his cheeks and his ears flare up. Feeling what St. M meant gave him a boost of good feelings that was way above than a regular patient’s recovery.

They were closer to one another and he felt the urge to embrace her. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around her middle.

She stiffened in his grasp, “What are you doing?”

“Giving you a big ol’ hug!”

“Oh,” she relaxed her shoulders. “I… thought you were attacking me.”

“Never,” he dared to squeeze tighter. “I’m a pacifist, remember.”

St. M took slow breaths before also embracing him. It was as heartfelt as his but more of a strong sense of care where she would relax against him and put her arms on his back to keep him locked in place.

There was a stiff silence as the two sat there and enjoyed the beautiful weather in Greenhorne. The sun began to set and a quaint wind blew through the path they were on.

Soon the thief had to peel away from her teammate, her legs feeling wobblier than what she considered normal, “Let’s just get to the inn tonight.”

He also unwrapped himself from her and held St. M’s hand, “You got it.”

She felt safer with him than anyone.

**Author's Note:**

> The language, Hand, is heavily Transformers inspired.


End file.
